My Amortentia
by galaxies in her eyes
Summary: Pansy bit out through gritted teeth, "Fresh wood smoke, old books, and..." she swore, "Granger, what the hell did you do to this? Is there a truth spell on the room or something?"


**Hogwarts (Challenges and Assignments).**

 _Assignment 7 — Arithmancy: Numerology — task 7 — The Seeker — write about a wise person showing ignorance_

 _Easter challenge — Build a Bunny — color — blue — (flower) Nepeta_

 _Going, Going, Gone! — (dialogue) "someone slip me a poison apple and put me out of my misery"_

 **Room of Requirement.**

 _Broaden Your Horizons — Romance Stories — Favorite Pairing — write about a pairing you love, but it isn't your OTP, per say_

* * *

"Are you bloody _kidding_ me?" Ronald Weasley was frustrated out of his wits. "Honestly, 'Mione. Can't you see that Pansy's into you?"

The two friends — _just_ friends, no matter how hard Molly Weasley tried to shove them at one another — were sitting in a Muggle bar two years after the end of the war and talking about their love lives. Or rather, their lack of ones.

The petite brunette sighed. "Ron, thank you for trying to make me feel better, but there's no way Pansy Parkinson is into me. Me! Queen of the library stacks, the girl that was upset when she got less than a hundred and ten on a quiz. Besides, she's the best singer in the Wizarding world. She's a celebrity! Why the hell would she stoop to me — to my level?"

Ron ran his hand through his hair. He'd grown it longer, and Molly'd practically had a conniption fit. "Hermione, listen to me. You're a beautiful woman, not to mention a bloody war heroine. Anyone would be lucky to have you. Especially Pansy Parkinson. Besides that, I've heard rumors that she's into someone. Someone with brown hair, brown eyes, who loves books, and who works at a bookstore."

Hermione frowned. "But that could be anyone. It may not even be a woman."

"A _Muggle_ bookstore," he amended.

"But does she not still hate everything Muggle?" asked Hermione. "And again, that could mean a man."

"Apparently not," Ron said, smirking. "And I rather doubt that Pansy likes men."

Hermione blushed and tossed back the rest of her drink.

* * *

Pansy had a problem. A problem that went by the name Hermione Jean Granger, in fact. She liked Granger — a little too much. It was ridiculous, unheard of, for Pansy Parkinson to be obsessing over a girl, and she was more than a little embarrassed by that fact.

But there was just something about Granger that drew her in. Was it those amber eyes the color of firewhiskey that seemed to stare into your soul and draw out your secrets? Was it the adorable habit she had of chewing her bottom lip when she was nervous or thinking hard about something? Was it the wild mane of chocolate curls that Pansy herself had made fun of during their Hogwarts years — which were actually were pretty now that they had tamed down?

Pansy didn't know. Perhaps, she mused, it was a mixture — the mixture that made Hermione Granger Hermione Granger.

* * *

"Oh, I'm so sor —" Hermione trailed off. She hadn't been watching where she was going and had bumped into someone. That someone happened to be the one and only Pansy Parkinson.

"No, no," replied the Slytherin singer songwriter. "It's perfectly alright." They knelt at the same time to retrieve the papers strewn on the floor that Hermione had dropped, and bumped foreheads. "Ow."

"Merlin, I'm sorry!" Hermione scrambled to collect the papers and stood, flushed, an embarrassed look on her face and her clothes a bit rumpled. "I seem to be a mess today."

Pansy refrained from the comment that she wanted to say: I happen to like messes. Especially hot ones. "No, it was my fault. I should have paid more attention."

Hermione threw caution to the wind after that. If Pansy could be nice to her, Muggleborn bookworm swot, perhaps she would accept after all. "Tell you what," she bargained, "I'll take you out for a coffee during my lunch break to make up for running into you." Seeing Pansy opening her mouth, she hurried, "My treat. Please. It's the least I can —"

"Granger," interrupted the black-haired witch, "I was going to say yes. That sounds lovely."

"Wonderful!" Hermione smiled nervously. "I, er — I'll meet you at your studio at noon?"

Pansy grinned, a sight that nearly took Hermione's breath away. Merlin, would she ever be good enough for this goddess? "I'll be there."

* * *

Hermione nearly talked herself out of meeting Pansy half a dozen times before noon. But finally she put away the book records and locked up the little bookshop with the key the owner had entrusted to her and made her way into to a deserted alley behind the store so she could Apparate to Diagon Alley.

She checked her watch when she landed right outside the entrance — five til — then tapped her wand on the bricks in the pattern and it slid open. Her eyes zeroed in on the silver building near the opposite end of the alley, where a slender black-haired young woman in a knee-length emerald green dress stood.

Hermione huffed out an amused breath. She was wearing a red shirt with the long draped sleeves she loved because they were loose and hid her Mudblood scar courtesy of Bellatrix Lestrange. Slytherin and Gryffindor. What a match.

"Hello," she greeted Pansy. "Are you ready?"

Pansy nodded, a bright smile on her face. "Let's go."

* * *

They stayed for their entire lunch break, sipping their coffee — which the singer admitted she'd never had before — and just chatting. Hermione learned that Pansy would much rather be painting than singing, that she also despised Quidditch and the injuries it caused, that she knew what had happened during their second year when Hermione took the Polyjuice potion with the cat hair (the brunette blushed fiercely and burned her tongue on her coffee when she tried to hide her face by taking a sip), that her favorite flower was catmints, and that she'd had a crush on Draco Malfoy and had subsequently smelled herbs and lemongrass when they'd sniffed the Amortentia in sixth year.

Then Pansy asked Hermione what her Amortentia smelled like. Shifting from side to side in the booth, Hermione quietly replied, "Cigarette smoke and..."

"...and?" prompted Pansy. "I know there's something else you smell. Come on, girl, spill! I promise I won't hold it against you if it has something to do with one of your sidekicks."

Hermione sighed. "Honestly, I don't know. I haven't been around Amortentia for years."

Smirking, Pansy stood. "Let's go," she said. "I'm taking you to the Love Room at the Ministry so you can get a good whiff of that Amortentia. Now I'm curious."

* * *

All it took to get past the Ministry security was the flash of Pansy's bracelet — a pink ruby key on a string of delicate freshwater pearls. There was only one in the world, and Pansy guarded it fiercely, so everyone knew who she was by the bracelet.

The Slytherin witch dragged Hermione into the room with the large fountain of Amortentia. The perfumed potion smelled different than it had in sixth year, and the brunette took a step forward.

"What is it?" Pansy asked impatiently, standing by the door — too far away to get any scent from the potion.

Hermione leaned down. She already knew what she was going to smell: vanilla and light musk and the faintest whiff of cigarette smoke. She reported the cigarette smoke and the musk, leaving out the vanilla altogether. "Now you," she said, motioning to the fountain. "It's no fair for me to do it and not you."

Pansy walked over, brushing shoulders with Hermione on the way by. She leaned in and breathed the fumes in deeply — and straightened. "Is this some kind of joke?" she asked, voice shaking with suppressed anger. "What did you do to it?"

"I didn't do anything!" exclaimed Hermione, holding up her hands. "Why? What's it smell like?"

Her jaw clenched, Pansy bit out through gritted teeth, "Fresh wood smoke, old books, and..." she swore, "Granger, what the hell did you do to this? Is there a truth spell on the room or something?"

"I didn't touch it," Hermione protested. "What else?"

Pansy groaned, dropping her head. "Oranges," she whispered. "Mandarin oranges."

Mandarin oranges. It couldn't be a coincidence...could it?

* * *

It wasn't. Pansy apparently really did like her. Hermione couldn't understand why — she was a just a Muggleborn swot and Pansy was a rock star celebrity — but unless she'd lied about the scent of her Amortentia, it was true. Mandarin oranges was the scent of her shampoo.

But she needed to hear it from Pansy herself.

Which was how she ended up in front of Pansy's studio a few days later, clutching a single purple Nepeta — catmints — stem in her white-knuckled hand.

"Okay. Yes. Yes, alright; I'll meet you there," called Pansy over her shoulder as she backed out of the studio front door. She shut it with a click and turned around. She immediately let out a little squeal at the sight of Hermione and pressed her manicured hand to her chest. "Merlin, Granger, way to give a girl a fright!"

Hermione blushed. "Erm, sorry."

Pansy nodded. "So, uh, what are you doing here?" She glanced around. "Here, why don't we go back to that coffee shop. I could use a bite."

Hermione nodded, then presented the stalk of Nepeta to the Slytherin alumni.

It was Pansy's turn to blush.

* * *

They sat down in the booth across from one another. Pansy had bought a croissant and Hermione got a lemon bar. The Slytherin grinned. "I didn't realize what a sweet tooth you had," she remarked as she watched Hermione take a bite.

Hermione sighed. "Yes, I know. My parents were dentists — Muggle tooth Healers," she explained, seeing Pansy's blank stare, "so I never got that many sweets. If I ever have kids one day — which I seriously doubt I will — I swear I'll let them eat as much candy as they want so they get sick of it. It would be better than going my parents' way."

Pansy was silent for a moment. Finally, she ventured, "Do you want kids? Ever?"

"Yes," answered Hermione, "it would be nice, but unfortunately I need a man to do that. Or a sperm donor."

Frowning, Pansy asked, "Why?"

Hermione tilted her head and a little line appeared between her eyebrows that Pansy found herself wanting to smooth away with her thumb — or a kiss. "Well, I mean, it's a bit hard for two women to conceive, isn't it?"

Pansy felt like smacking her forehead. Of course. "You're a lesbian?"

"Bi." Hermione shrugged.

"How did I not know this?" Pansy inquired. "I mean, bisexuals aren't that common in our world; the Wizarding world is kind of archaic that way."

Hermione laughed. "That it is." She sobered, smile fading, and said, "You didn't know because I didn't tell you. I didn't tell anyone, really."

"Why not?"

She shrugged. "It wasn't because I thought my friends would hate me; it was more because then I would be bombarded by fangirls instead of fanboys, and I've learned from experience that girls are willing to do just about anything for a celebrity."

"Take me, for example," sighed Pansy. "I mean, I haven't come out because I'm already trampled whenever I step out of my house."

Hermione blinked. "You're…"

"A lesbian?" Pansy nodded. "Yes."

* * *

That certainly changed things, mused Hermione after returning home that evening. She'd had a feeling deep down that Pansy was a lesbian, but she didn't receive any of the newspapers that probably would have told her in gigantic black letters with — in the case of the _Daily Prophet_ , at least — a fake picture of Pansy kissing some faceless woman.

But since Pansy was a lesbian, that meant that the person Ron had heard rumor Pansy liked — the brunette, the brown-eyed person, the bibliophile, and the person who worked at a Muggle bookstore — could actually be her. She needed to know.

So she turned up outside the studio the next day at noon bearing a croissant still warm from the oven and waited. Pansy didn't come out, and she grew worried. What if the mission to find out whether Pansy liked her was a fail?

Then she heard a "Granger!" as Pansy bustled up behind her just as she was about to raise her fist to knock.

"Oh!" Hermione spun, clutching the croissant bag.

"Sorry!" Pansy grinned at her unrepentantly, but Hermione couldn't hold a grudge, even though her poor heart was still racing. "What are you doing here? Sorry if you were waiting long; I went on an errand."

Hermione silently handed over the croissant, and Pansy took the bag with a squeal. "Oh, thank you so much! I was honestly about to drop my stuff off and head out for one of those." She unlocked the front door of the studio and waved Hermione in while biting into the flaky pastry.

They settled on a couch in a back room that had a drum set, a piano, and several music stands. The curtains were drawn so no one could peek in, but it made the room rather dark.

"What did you come over for?" Pansy asked, taking a sip of water from the fancy glass she'd filled and given to herself and Hermione. The brunette turned the glass in her hands, staring at the pattern in the crystal.

"No reason," she said eventually.

Pansy bumped her shoulder. "Come on, Granger, I know you: you always have a reason! So what is it?"

Hermione looked up. "Do you, erm, I mean, am I — oh, Merlin, someone slip me a poison apple and put me out of my misery!" She took a deep breath and blurted, "AmIthepersonyoufancyoramIreadingintothisfriendshiptoomuch?"

Blinking, Pansy waved her hands in the air. "Granger, Granger, whoa, slow down there! Repeat that again, please, and slower this time."

Hermione sighed and dropped her head into her hands. Voice muffled, she repeated, "Am I the person you fancy or am I just reading into this friendship too much? Is this," she gestured between the two of them, "even a friendship?"

Pansy looked bemused. "Well, of course we're friends," she said.

"Yes," said Hermione, raising her head, "but you smelled mandarin oranges in your Amortentia, which happens to be the scent if my shampoo. Not to mention that mine smells like musk, cigarette smoke, and vanilla."

Pansy's eyes opened wide. "So you're saying that —"

"Right," the brunette sighed. "You're my Amortentia."

* * *

Pansy tried to process that information. "If I'm your Amortentia, and my Amortentia smells like you, does that mean that we like one another?" she asked eventually. She knew it was a stupid question, but it seemed the only way for her to get the answer from Hermione.

Throwing precaution to the wind, Hermione shrugged. "Well, I don't know about you, but I like you. The question remains: do _you_ like _me_?"

In answer, Pansy placed a hand on the back of Hermione's head, tangling in her wild mane of curls that no longer bothered her anymore, pulled her in so their lips met, and snogged her thoroughly.

"Does that answer your question?" Pansy panted when they broke apart.

All Hermione could do was nod.

* * *

A year later, they were married. Hermione enlisted Luna as her maid of honor, while Pansy chose Daphne Greengrass. Victoire, the three year old daughter of Bill and Fleur, acted as their flower girl and Scorpius Malfoy was the ring-bearer.

The wedding decorations were beautiful: the color scheme was silver and gold, and the flowers chosen and in the brides' bouquets were daisies, white roses, and, of course, purple Nepeta.

They both wrote their vows. When they spoke, their words were so filled with love that everyone watching teared up.

And when the Minister pronounced that they could now kiss the bride, a collective "aww" came from the crowd. Pansy planted a light kiss to Hermione's lips and whispered, "I love you, my Amortentia."

* * *

 **A/N: ...could you tell that I've been re-reading the sequels to the Wizard of Oz?**

* * *

 _word count: 2663_


End file.
